by Kay Moser
Sarah sighed. “I must learn everything, it seems. I wonder if I will live long enough to—” The sound of the heavy brass door knocker startled her into silence.
“You will!” Miss Victoria laughed. “Let the ladies in, Sarah. The adventure begins.”
***
It was indeed an adventure, but absolutely exhilarating for Sarah. She had never been in a room with intellectually curious women—at least some of those present were truly interested in books. Others had come to show off their finery, as Miss Victoria had predicted, and it took no time at all for the division to become obvious.
“Poetry!” Josephine Schmidt declared the minute Miss Victoria opened the floor for suggestions for study.
“Oh yes,” Clementine Drift agreed, “something sweet and romantic.”
“Sweet? Romantic? Absolutely not!” Theodora Benton countered. “We already have that lightweight stuff suffocating our lives. No, we need something with depth, something challenging.”
“But not disturbing!” Clementine Drift protested. “Surely you don’t want to read disturbing things.”
“No indeed,” Fanny Sharp agreed. “After all, we are Christian ladies.”
Theodora jumped to her feet. “Poetry must speak to life! It should realistically illustrate life’s difficulties and give us answers.”
“Absolutely!” Josephine Schmidt agreed. “We need new eyes to see the real world.”
“I’m quite content with my current eyes, thank you very much, Josephine.” Fanny haughtily rose and glared at her.
Silence enveloped the room, and Sarah realized she had been holding her breath too long. A quick glance at Miss Victoria convinced Sarah that her mentor was struggling mightily to hold her tongue.
“What is the point of this literary society if we stay in the same old ruts?” Theodora demanded.
“I like the so-called ‘rut’ I’m in!” Louise Proper joined the fray.
“Ladies.” Mrs. Boyd rose between the warring women and, to the surprise of everyone, declared, “What a wonderful beginning for our new society! Discussion is the essence of our purpose, and fortunately, mature Christian women that we are, we can engage in lively intellectual discussion—and even disagreement—and remain the best of friends.” She turned to Sarah. “Sarah, dear, would you offer the ladies more of those delicious blackberry tarts? They are the perfect sustenance for our intellectual battle.”
The angry ladies sank back into their chairs, and Sarah hastily grabbed the silver tray.
“More tea, anyone?” Miss Victoria asked as she motioned to Frances to bring the silver service set forward.
“Let’s take on a novel,” Margie Cook, the Episcopal rector’s wife, suggested.
“Oh yes, a good romance,” Clementine Drift agreed. “Why, I just love a good romance, all those handsome men and swooning ladies.”
“Not a romance, for pity’s sake!” Josephine Schmidt protested. “Something with weight.”
“What about a Dickens novel?” Margie Cook asked.
“But we all read Dickens constantly,” Theodora complained. “I want a challenge.”
Louise Proper whipped open her fan and waved it vigorously in front of her red face. “What you call a challenge, Theodora, I call improper.”
“Let’s read a Thomas Hardy novel,” Josephine suggested. “Harper’s Magazine has been featuring monthly installments of his latest, Jude the Obscure. It’s excellent, and it’s just been released as a bound book.”
“Must we?” Fanny Sharp demanded. “His last one was scandalous!”
“Truthful—that’s what it was,” Josephine retorted.
“Scandalous, I say.”
“Truth is sometimes scandalous,” Mrs. Boyd pointed out quietly, “but we cannot repair things if we refuse to look at them.”
“But really, Mrs. Boyd.” Louise Proper slapped her fan into her lap. “A story about an unwed mother? I stopped reading it after the third installment.”
“Tess was a victim,” Miss Victoria spoke for the first time, “not a perpetrator.”
“Well, that’s true, but still, she was ruined.” Louise Proper smirked.
Fanny Sharp nodded. “Stained for life, and decent people could hardly be expected to associate with her. Why I heard of a girl over in—”
“Are we not called to lift up those in distress?” Mrs. Boyd interrupted. “And surely Tess represents many young women who—”
“Women of a different class, Mrs. Boyd!” Fanny Sharp insisted.
“But still God’s children,” Mrs. Boyd countered.
“And still women suffering because of the actions of unscrupulous men,” Miss Victoria added.
The room grew quiet as each lady’s eyes took on the faraway look that suggested a private journey into her own memories.
“Our purpose is to stretch ourselves, isn’t it?” Mrs. Logan entered the debate. “Why don’t we combine some elevating poetry with this new novel of Mr. Hardy’s?”
“Some Longfellow would be a good antidote for Mr. Hardy,” Margie Cook suggested.
Lavinia half rose from her chair and, timidly raising her hand, spoke for the first time. “I would dearly love to discuss some Wordsworth—could we possibly ...” She sank back into her chair and bowed her head.
“I want to read Wordsworth too,” Sarah blurted as she leaned forward eagerly. “And Tennyson and Keats—” Startled by her own boldness, she fell silent and frantically sought Miss Victoria’s face.
Miss Victoria beamed at her and winked.
Mrs. Boyd rose. “I propose that these two young ladies prepare a presentation of the poetry of contemporary English poets for our January meeting.”
“Splendid idea!” Josephine Schmidt agreed. “I second the motion.”
“Lavinia is going to lead us?” Louise Proper demanded.
“With Sarah’s help,” Miss Victoria added.
Fanny Sharp’s mouth flew open. “Sarah? Surely not!”
Sarah’s heart threatened to thump right out of her chest as all the oxygen left the room. She glanced at Lavinia, who had turned as white as the bone china teacup shaking in her hand.
Theodora Benton stood. “I propose we read Hardy’s new novel for our February meeting. That will give us all time to order the book and read it.”
“Oh, I’m not at all sure about the Hardy suggestion—”
“What we need is inspiration and education,” Miss Victoria interrupted. “I propose that the young ladies inspire us with poetry in January, and in February we discuss Mr. Hardy’s new novel. A well-balanced literary diet indeed.”
“Great idea!” Theodora declared. “I second the motion.”
“But ... Hardy?” Louise Proper demanded.
Mrs. Boyd intervened. “How wonderful, ladies! We have a plan and a very good one indeed. We shall meet on the second Tuesday of the month, beginning in January. We shall enjoy a discussion of contemporary poetry led by Miss Logan and Miss Novak in January. In February, we shall begin our discussion of Mr. Hardy’s new novel.”
“But surely—” Fanny Sharp started to protest.
“We will need some officers, of course,” Mrs. Boyd continued. “Do I hear nominations for a president?”
“Mrs. Proper.”
“Mrs. Hodges.”
Lavinia tentatively raised her hand. “I nominate Mrs. Boyd.”
“Excellent choice, Miss Logan,” Miss Victoria said. “Mrs. Proper, will you join me in suggesting that Mrs. Boyd be elected unanimously?”
“Well ...” Mrs. Proper looked at Mrs. Sharp, who nodded. “Certainly.”
“All in favor?” Miss Victoria asked.
“Aye!” the ladies chorused.
“As for the remaining officers—vice president, secretary, treasurer, and historian—if it is acceptable to you, Mrs. Boyd, I suggest that the ladies send you their suggestions in a note, and you can tabulate the votes and report the results.”
Mrs. Boyd nodded.
“Good idea,” Fann
y Sharp said. “Obviously, a secret ballot is best.”
“Indeed,” Miss Victoria agreed. “And I would like to invite the group to meet here in January to install our officers and hear the poetry presentation by our younger members.”
Louise Proper stood and pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. “I’m not sure I’ll be joining this society. It seems to me that Mrs. Bellows’ prediction has come true. She has told me all about—”
“You most certainly will join, Louise!” Fanny Sharp interrupted her. “I’m going to nominate you for several positions. Besides, it is our duty to join and fight this new radicalism in our beloved Riverford.”
Sarah’s eyes darted to Miss Victoria as the group fell into uncomfortable silence.
Mrs. Boyd rose. “As your newly elected—but uninstalled—president, may I encourage you all to join our new literary society and invite others to join too? Differences of opinion create opportunities for growth. I can’t imagine how we shall prosper without each and every one of you.”
“Meeting adjourned!” Josephine Schmidt called out. “Let’s have some more of those blackberry tarts.”
“Oh yes.” Mrs. Boyd laughed lightly. “Meeting adjourned. I see I must brush up on parliamentary rules.”
No one else laughed, and no one moved.
Miss Victoria scanned the group, then rose with great dignity. “I hope you will all stay and visit for a while. I suspect our differences in experience and opinions will only strengthen our group. Why don’t we find out? I’m sure Frances has some fresh tea ready in the dining room.”
***
When the last lady had left, Miss Victoria and Sarah collapsed into the wicker chairs on the side porch, and Miss Victoria decreed, “No more work today. We have survived the Battle of Small Minds. That is sufficient accomplishment for any day!”
“Accomplishment or disaster? I can’t believe I’m supposed to make a presentation on anything, much less on poetry. Oh, I hope Lavinia is a scholar!”
“You are going to do very well. You’re the perfect team. I hear Lavinia is quite the student, but she’s too shy to stand up and speak. You have the confidence to present the paper—”
“No, I don’t! Miss Victoria, I’m just—”
“Don’t say that! Not one mention of ‘farm girl,’ or I’ll make you spend the afternoon doing Maude’s calisthenics nonstop.”
Sarah groaned. “At least I could do that or die trying. Right now, dying doesn’t sound so bad.”
Miss Victoria leaned forward. “Just think how much you will learn in the next two months, Sarah, and it’s poetry. You have a special heart for poetry.”
“But an empty head! Thank goodness there’s no December meeting.”
“Best to start after the holidays. As for your empty head, Lavinia will fix that.”
“What will Maude say? I’m knee-deep in the classics in the curriculum she gave me.”
“She’ll say that your mean old boss got you into this and, therefore, must give you time to accomplish it. And by the way, I’m in love with Wordsworth and Tennyson.”
“What?” Mr. Hayden demanded from the doorway and made them both jump. “I always suspected there was another man, and now you admit there are actually two?”
“Wordsworth died in 1850, and, sadly, Tennyson died three years ago. And furthermore, it’s not nice to sneak up on a lady when she’s plotting.”
He put his arm around her and kissed her lightly on the lips. “What if the lady in question is always plotting?”
“Then you must make your presence known by shouting at the front door. What are you doing home anyway?”
He waved several envelopes in the air as he threw himself onto the wicker settee next to her. “News for my fair lady!”
“Well, what is it?”
“Guess what has arrived?”
Miss Victoria studied his face a few seconds before her mouth flew open and she leapt out of the chair and began jumping up and down. “The fountain! It’s here!”
“It is, little girl.” Mr. Hayden laughed at her. “Couldn’t you work up a little enthusiasm?”
“Where is it? Let’s go get it.”
“It’s at the railway station, being loaded onto wagons, and I suspect it will be here in about an hour, give or take. So you have plenty of time to give Sarah and your husband a delicious meal.”
“How can you think about eating at a time like this? There’s so much to do.”
“Not a thing actually, except just sit here next to me.”
“I’m too excited to sit, Hayden.”
“Well, darling, I think you should sit before you read this.” He held out an envelope to her.
“What is it? Not bad news?” She snatched the paper. “Oh, it’s from Mother,” she sighed, “so of course it’s bad.” She sank down beside him, ripped open the envelope, and started scanning the contents. “Oh no! She’s coming to visit. She’s coming next week! We’ll never get ready in time. She’s not bringing her maid, assumes my lady’s maid can assist her and Amelia. She’s staying through Thanksgiving! Hayden, what are we going to do? Mother is accustomed to a huge staff.”
“We’re just going to be ourselves,” Mr. Hayden replied nonchalantly, then grimaced. “Of course, we’re also going to hire extra help and beg Sarah’s father to let her stay here full time.”
“What a great idea!” Miss Victoria exclaimed.
He nodded. “I have them from time to time.”
“Sarah, do you think there’s any chance? We’ll still have to hire more help for Frances, but if you could play lady’s maid to Mother and Amelia, we might actually survive the visit.”
“I can ask Pa.”
“I could move down to the store,” Mr. Hayden offered.
“This is not funny, Hayden! You forget that Mother has never even met you. So, you, of all people, are going to be under the microscope.”
“She’s never met Mr. Hayden?” Sarah asked.
“No, we married in England,” he answered.
“Much without Mother’s approval,” Miss Victoria added.
“Though she was glad to get you out of the spinster role, I believe.” He laughed as he hugged her.
“She was indeed, so you’ll get some points for that.”
“Don’t worry, darling. We’ll muddle through. How bad can it be?”
Miss Victoria sighed loudly. “You have no idea.”
“Then let’s start fortifying ourselves now. What’s for dinner?”
***
An hour later, freight wagons arrived at the front gate, and Mr. Hayden raced out to meet them. Miss Victoria and Sarah watched from the front verandah as the men struggled to bring the crates to the appointed place. When Mr. Hayden picked up a crowbar to open the first lid, Miss Victoria bolted down the steps.
“You’re not doing that without me!”
“Certainly not,” he agreed. “Come on, Sarah. You too.”
With the help of a workman, Mr. Hayden pried up the lid, nails screeching as they were forced free of the dense wood. Victoria raked straw away, and for the first time in her life, Sarah saw the glorious beauty of a carved and polished marble face. Wide-eyed and speechless with wonder, she reached in and ran her hand along the marble cheek. She was touching a piece of her future, the beginning of a love affair with great art, and she knew it. She would never be the same.
“Oh, Hayden, it’s going to be stunning,” she heard Miss Victoria say. “But this is not the best time to have the front yard all littered or dug up.”
“I’ll have it all together and working before the Dowager Queen arrives. I promise.”
“Do you think you can?”
“Absolutely. Anything for my princess.”
“Sarah, we’ve got to take the house apart, clean it, and put it back together again in one week. Sarah?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sarah, still stroking the marble, struggled to reconnect to the flesh-and-blood humans at her side.
Victoria covered
Sarah’s hand with her own. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s the first time I’ve experienced ...”
“Great art. Genius at work.”
“But not the last, Sarah,” Mr. Hayden said. “I want you to unpack Victoria’s paintings. Talk about art!”
“Oh no!” Victoria protested. “We’ll leave those out of sight. We’ve got enough trouble.”
“The Dowager Queen doesn’t approve of her ultra-talented daughter using her talent,” Mr. Hayden explained. “But I do, and you will hang some of your paintings. I insist!”
Sarah’s heart swelled with fondness for him. What would it be like to be loved like that? To be loved for who you were?
Victoria grimaced. “So much to do! We’ll have to give a dinner party for Mother and Amelia, you know.”
“And so we will.”
“She’s sure to turn her nose up at Riverford.”
“Undoubtedly. But, sweetheart, this fountain, your talent, and our marriage are here to stay. Your mother is going back to Galveston.”
CHAPTER 11
With the help of Sarah and the servants, by Friday afternoon Victoria had organized the house and planned the meals for the upcoming extended visit of her mother and sister. Nevertheless, shortly before dusk as she stood on the verandah waving good-bye to Sarah, a spirit of despair overwhelmed her. Hayden had left an hour before for a civic meeting, and Victoria should have been looking forward to quiet time alone. Instead, she found herself pacing up and down the verandah, struggling not to wring her hands.
“I know I’m worried to death about Mother’s visit,” she muttered, “but there’s more to it.” She plopped down on the top step and stared at the pieces of the marble fountain that lay haphazardly on the dry lawn. The workmen had finished the necessary plumbing and built the base for the fountain, but at this point the statue looked broken, as if someone were destroying it, not building it.
Impatient with herself, Victoria slapped her hand down on the wide planks of the porch and stood. Her clenched fists automatically found their indignant position, one firmly planted on each hip, and she marched toward the circle of marble pieces. Once there, she examined the beautiful face of Thalia, stroked the cool marble, and was soon lost in her thoughts. So heavy, so ponderously heavy, and yet so smooth and so delicately wrought. Just look at these strands of hair. I feel like I could twine one around my finger. How do sculptors do this? How do they convert such unyielding stone to such grace?